My decision to move to London was like the beginning of a Gothic novel. It started with a message, promising an opportunity. A friend texted me: “I keep seeing places we could rent together. Why aren’t you here?”
It was a good question.
At the time I was 25, having moved back to Belfast four years previously. I was single and had a job that was good but I couldn’t see a future in. Even my writing – my passion – seemed to have ground to a slow halt. I lay awake at night, haunted by my worries about this.
I had always been a writer. Even in primary school, I went to writing classes for children and had my work read aloud by teachers. But as I got older, I found my stories raised some eyebrows. They became darker, grittier and this was probably no surprise.
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Living in south Belfast in the 1990s, attending a small Catholic primary school, I was considered sheltered, but the realities of the peace process were always there. The murals depicting gun-toting men, their faces hidden by balaclavas, bomb-scare procedures and the whispered, dark conversations of adults all became the background of my childhood.
My mother’s family had been deeply affected and I was coached in ways to stay safe. My father was Protestant and I still remember his Auntie Lila giving me a pound for being able to say a whole prayer in Gaeilge – a skill I no longer have – and laughing loudly when I asked if she was taught Gaeilge at school.
I wrote stories about it and the feedback was that I was “obsessed with the Troubles”. It was like telling a fish they were obsessed with the ocean.
I took a creative writing class in sixth form and it was no surprise when I went to study to English literature at the University of East Anglia
My writing continued in secondary school, where I lived in the boarding department, with its gargoyles and carved heads emerging from the walls. It was there, on one of the department’s two computers, that I wrote my ghost stories, before returning to the dormitory I shared with 14 other girls where I would wake in the night as a draft blew open the swinging doors and the floorboards creaked.
Every Halloween my family went to the mountains above Rome and I wrote ghost stories to share as we sat around a brazier. I took a creative-writing class in sixth form and it was no surprise when I went to study to English literature at the University of East Anglia. Even after I returned from England, I became a script reader for theatre companies, was part of the Young Writer’s Programme with Tinderbox Theatre Co and started my own blog.
But then, without noticing, I stagnated.
I wrote, but it didn’t sound right. Inspired by Marina Carr and Martin McDonagh, I tried to turn my stories into scripts, but I couldn’t make it work and I was starting to worry that writing, like everything else, was another dead end.
Something needed to change and now, here was the chance. I had already tried England twice before. After university, I moved to Manchester, leaving when I realised that I wasn’t earning enough to support myself. I didn’t know what I would do if this third attempt failed. So, like a Gothic heroine out seeking her fortune, I decided that failure was not an option. I had to make it work.
I think it took me five minutes to text my friend in London back: “Would summer work?”
That was 10 years ago. By the spring of 2020, I was a teacher living with my fiance in west London and we had just been told we were going into lockdown. My days were now spent talking to blank screens on MS Teams, trying not to worry, not to miss home, and I was itching for something to do.
I’ve always believed that there is a little voice in you, in your gut or your heart or the back of your head that every so often nudges you and says, ‘yes. This thing. Go on’
For the past few years, my writing had been practical, but now something was different. I had an idea for a novel: a gothic mystery with a young woman at the centre. With no other option but to make her next step work. I started writing it and then, once again, I got a message, promising opportunity from the same friend as years ago.
“This agency’s looking for people. Send them what you’ve got.”
I’ve always believed that there is a little voice in you, in your gut or your heart or the back of your head that every so often nudges you and says, “Yes. This thing. Go on.”
It whispered in my ear when I first thought of London and when I first spoke to my husband. Now, it tugged at me again. I sent what I had.
The agency emailed me back. They were interested. Not just interested, but excited!
In our first Zoom call, my new agent asked me, “what inspired you to write Gothic fiction?”
“It’s a long story,” I said.
- Louise Davidson is the author of The Fortunes of Olivia Richmond. She is from Belfast.
- If you live overseas and would like to share your experience with Irish Times Abroad, email abroad@irishtimes.com with a little information about you and what you do.
